


Five-Finger Discount

by SonaBeanSidhe



Series: The M Universe [16]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 90s hair in all its glory, Breaking and Entering, Gen, Halloween, dublin street urchins of dubious morality, even lorna knows fake alligator skin is tacky, shoplifters ahoy, the halloween truce of 1994
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonaBeanSidhe/pseuds/SonaBeanSidhe
Summary: In Lorna's opinion, the Irish didn't do Halloween nearly as grand as Americans, but that didn't mean there wasn't fun to be had (and anarchy to be sown). The only thing better than unification against a common enemy is unification that involves candy, toilet paper, raw Spam, and the judicious use of a few home-made explosives.
Series: The M Universe [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/185963
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Five-Finger Discount

**Author's Note:**

> So many of my stories are sad-to-bittersweet, so I figured it was time for a strictly humorous one.

Lorna really wasn’t sure why she was always tapped to do things like this. Yeah, she was tiny and looked a good five years younger than her fifteen, but she was also somewhat physically distinctive — people who saw her more than once tended to recognize her again, which wasn’t exactly a grand thing if you were a shoplifter.

Then again, right now the shops were so busy that she could easily get lost in the crowd — Halloween in Ireland might not be what it was in America, but it was an excuse for mams to gather and gab, and if all the kids were at someone’s house playing games, they weren’t out throwing eggs at cars. Two days before the main event, every supermarket in Dublin was crammed with housewives loading up on party snacks and the few decorations that had filtered over from the States. Now _they_ celebrated Halloween to an extent Lorna could really get behind.

So she now ooched her way through a forest of legs, and for once did not kick everyone who got in her way. The last thing she needed to do was go attracting any attention, after all, and she’d done well so far. Her jeans and faded denim jacket (which actually fit; Orla had nicked it from a charity shop because it was one of the few things small enough to not look like a tent on Lorna) blended in with a whole load of other kids in the area, and her long hair was bound in a braid and tucked into the back of the jacket. She looked neither too posh nor too scruffy, at least by the standards of the area, and it meant she could move about the aisles unhindered and unnoticed.

The indecipherable babble of scores of mams washed around her like a very odd sea, while here and there a snatch made sense: “— can’t believe I forgot the bloody apples, and I just know they’re out’v caramel —”, “— wonderful, no more chocolate bars —” , “—I hope the kids like nuts—” and on and on. Lorna let it wash over her as she darted here and there. _She_ had some chocolate bars, tucked into the inner pockets of her coat: Shane had stitched them in himself, so that she could tuck things in and not leave having obviously nicked something. Of course the bars would be melted by the time she got back to the warehouse, but they’d harden again in the cold.

She made her way past the meat counter, buffeted by handbags that hit her at chest-height. Her nose wrinkled at the vague, copper smell of blood, while the butcher hacked at something with a cleaver as long as her arm. Meat was a rarity in her world, because it was hard to nick, and she wasn’t about to try it now. 

A handbag (fake alligator skin; even Lorna knew how tacky that was) smacked her in the face, courtesy of a heedless, middle-aged woman in a yellow leather jacket and jeans meant for somebody ten years younger, with blonde hair of such nightmarish size that she looked like a dandelion puff. Of course she didn't even notice, so Lorna, cranky, lifted her pocketbook (and oh good Jesus, it was fake alligator skin, too. It must have come with the handbag, and smelled strongly of plastic.) Rather than make off with the whole thing, she flicked open the cheap clasp and yanked out all the cash. Shane had had her practice that until she could get it all done in under thirty seconds; the pocketbook was back where it belonged before anyone was likely to notice, and she scurried off with a pocket of unexpected pounds.

 _Biscuits,_ she thought. Biscuits, and then she’d best scarper; the real trick of not getting noticed was not lingering long enough to _be_ noticed. She wanted some custard creams, dammit, and she was bloody well going to get them — she hadn't forgot Siobhan’s trick of just stuffing the whole box down her shirt. No shop owner with more than three brain cells was going to ask a girl to take her shirt off, no matter how dubious she might appear, and that meant more opportunity to leg it.

When she rounded the corner of the aisle, she nearly ran smack into somebody else — somebody familiar, God bleeding help her. Little Dai belonged to a rival gang, who used him pretty much the same way Lorna’s used her — he was a short lad who looked a lot younger than eighteen, with sandy hair and a face that was almost more freckle than skin. The sort of kid you’d find in a Sunday comic, dressed in jeans, trainers, and a puffy tan jacket, like any lad with a respectable mam. He was also a complete bastard who’d once kicked her knee and called her gyppo, and she’d knocked out one of his molars in retaliation.

She stared at him, and he at her, both too startled to immediately react. This was a solid gold opportunity to lamp him, but they were surrounded by women of the sort that had no problem at all with yanking the ear half off a strange child. The really hilarious thing was that she could _see_ him thinking the exact same thing — the wheels in his head were turning rapidly behind his brown eyes.

 _Truce?_ she mouthed. It was in everyone’s best interest that they both get the hell out without incident.

He nodded, ever so slightly, and the pair of them scurried out into the cold autumn afternoon. The sky was appropriately dark and cloudy for the lead-up to Halloween, and a light breeze sent fallen leaves and assorted litter scudding across the car park. Away from the herd of housewives, it left both of them suddenly, excruciatingly awkward.

“Er,” she said. Even in the car park, attacking him really wasn’t the greatest idea, but that was what you _did_ with members of rival gangs. Lacking that option, she was somewhat at a loss, and it looked like he was, too. “Er, what did you get?”

He glanced around, as though searching for help that wasn’t going to arrive. “Chocolate and some Jaffa cakes,” he muttered. “You?”

“Chocolate and custard creams,” she said. “Uh...you know, fuck it. Let’s trade and tell no one.” It was the biggest gesture of good faith she could think of — one that hopefully said _no, I’m not going to jump you as soon as all the adults are out of sight._ It was nearly Halloween — she could have some mercy, even if she wasn’t about to tell anyone else.

Little Dai looked at her like she’d absolutely lost her mind, and on balance, Lorna couldn’t exactly blame him. She still had the scar on her foot, and he presumably still didn't have a molar, but...well, it was nearly Halloween. Before she’d left school, she’d learned about the Christmas truce of 1914, in the First World War. No reason not to have the Halloween truce of 1994, especially since there was nobody else around to see. Plus, she really wanted some Jaffa cakes.

“I won’t tell if you don't,” she added, when he totally failed to respond. 

“Why the fuck not,” he said, after a few furtive glances. “But hurry it up.”

With a grin, Lorna pulled the somewhat squashed cardboard carton out of her shirt, and carefully tore at the plastic wrapping. It crinkled, and she stuffed it in her pocket rather than chuck it. Her tiny hands were already chilled, but she’d warm up soon enough in the warehouse. It was the work of a moment to count and remove half the biscuits, and she swapped them for the cakes with almost lightning speed. At least she tried to be careful when sticking the latter in the custard cream carton. “Deadly. Let’s not meet up on the night.” She wanted to egg buildings, not lamp somebody.

“Sounds good to me,” he said. His tone still had a slight air of disbelief, but she couldn't blame him; this really was pretty damn surreal.

“Oi! Did you kids pay for that lot?” A man in a green butcher’s uniform was glowering at them, his ruddy-faced, watery-eyed, and deeply suspicious.

Lorna’s eyes widened, as did Little Dai’s. The pair of them were off without a word of consultation, weaving through the sea of parked cars and irritated mams. The butcher probably wouldn’t give them chase, but ‘probably’ wasn’t ‘definitely’, so they ran, and didn't slow until they’d reached the footpath. Tiny, frigid drops of rain stung on her face: she needed to get home before the sky started pissing.

“Good luck,” she said, and she was off again. Her face might be cold (and her ears, ow), but running kept the rest of her warm enough — even if her breath was uncomfortably ragged. One of these days she really had to quit smoking, but there were a whole lot of things she should do ‘one of these days’ that might never be done. Life was too damn short to waste it doing shite you didn't like.

She made it to the warehouse just in time for the sky to open, and scurried through the door before it had a chance to open onto her. “That was close.”

It was nice and warm in here, for they’d cordoned off an area with blankets to preserve the heat. A big electric fire sat on top of the giant cable spool that passed as their table, which currently also held an assortment of Styrofoam takeaway containers (Chinese, she was sure, and hoped like hell they’d saved her enough). A battered wooden bookcase served as a cupboard for their mishmash of dishes, and they even had a refrigerator — as Shane said, it was amazing how easy it was to nick something if you wore a uniform and acted like you were meant to be there.

“I got snacks _and_ cash,” she said, even as she paused, just a moment, to listen to the drum of the rain on the roof. When the weather was shite, she liked to remind herself that the cold was outside. It might be pissing and windy and five bloody degrees, but it was out _there_ and she was in _here,_ safe and warm. She’d so often been cold when she lived with her parents, before Mam died and the four of them had been taken into care. (Well, three of them — Pat was in gaol by then.) At any rate, the house was drafty and their fucking da didn't see any point in heating anything but the sitting-room and his and Mam’s bedroom.

But she was warm now, and there was no need to worry about sudden blows to the face. The cold was outside, and she had nibbles.

“Bloody grand,” Shane said. He had a takeaway box and a fifth of whiskey beside his lawn-chair, because of course he did. At twenty-three, he was the oldest of the gang, and the closest thing it had to a leader. “Might have to do something half-arse legal on Halloween. How much did you get?” 

“Didn't have time to count it.” Sure enough, one container still had orange chicken and noodles, and Lorna snatched it with tiny, greedy hands. Only when she’d emptied her pockets and sat, prize in her lap, did she hand him the wad of cash. “Only took it because the woman’s purse was ugly and it was just...right there. And no, she wasn’t any the wiser.”

“Of course she wasn’t,” he said, as he counted the crumpled bills. “I trained you right. Whoever she was, she must’ve just got paid, because there’s nearly sixty pounds here.”

“I want cake,” Maureen said immediately. “A proper cake, with frosting and filling and all that.”

“You’ll have to get it,” Lorna snorted. “I can’t go back to the shop — some gobshite tried chasing me. Didn't actually see me nick anything, but I know I’d have everybody eyeballing me from now until Sunday if I went back.” Maureen, with her curly dark hair and brown eyes, was able to blend better than most of them, if she had the right clothes on. She was just utter shite when it came to actually nicking things without getting caught.

“And how d’you expect to get it home when it’s sheeting out there?” Shane added. “Christ, if nature was able to vomit, this is what it’d look like.”

A rain of sick was not something Lorna wanted to envision, but there was no getting rid of it now. “If we wait ’til tomorrow, whatever Halloween cakes or biscuits or what have you will be on sale, just so the shop gets rid’v them. I don't want to go back out in that and trust me, you don't either.”

She said nothing of Little Dai, because she’d promised she wouldn’t. It was highly unlikely he’d go back to that shop — not after they’d both been chased. Odds of running into his gang were pretty low, so she wouldn’t worry about it now. For now there was warmth, the smell of takeaway food and cheap cider (Christ preserver from Bulmer’s; she wasn’t sure she’d be desperate enough to drink it ever again). It mingled with the faint scent of motor oil, because Shane sometimes got under-the-table work in a mechanic somewhere. Her chicken and noodles were tasty, even if they weren’t hot anymore — she was home.

~

“I’m telling you, this’ll all end in tears.” Maureen, as ever, had to go and be a fucking Debbie Downer. 

The rain had slackened off at around midnight, leaving the air as clean and pure as it was ever going to get in the city. Since there was no such thing as a rational bedtime in the warehouse, a few of them had decided that burgling the shop would be a fantastic idea. Lorna knew for a fact that the so-called security cameras didn't actually work, which was why she rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, well, at least they won’t be ours,” she whispered. “Why’d you come with us if you’re so worried?”

“Because I can pick a lock in half the time you can,” Maureen whispered back. “Door to the bakery’s out back — are you sure they haven’t got a burglar alarm?”

“Nope,” Lorna said. “I guess we’re about to find out — we’ll just have to scarper if they do.” She really doubted it did, just because those were expensive and this shop probably didn't turn enough of a profit to warrant one.

She shook out their goodie bags while Maureen did her thing, cursing all the while — the moon was nearly full, but picking a lock was a fiddly business even in daylight. They didn't dare use a torch outside, because they could think of few things more likely to catch the attention of anyone who might be around to notice.

Orla took her bag, and swept her gaze all across the car park. Her blonde hair lit up like a damn halo in the moonlight, so she’d borrowed Shane’s darkest hooded jumper — she was as tall as he was, if not so broad-shouldered, so it fit her well enough. “Hurry it up, Maureen. “I’ll grow moss at this rate.”

“Sloths grow a type’v moss,” Kevin said. “In their hair.”

Lorna eyed him. Kevin was a fountain of weird trivia, and she was never quite sure if he was having them all on or not. That sounded just bizarre enough that she could actually believe it. “I’m not sure I want to know how you know that.”

The tumbler clicked, and Maureen let out a hiss of victory. There was a notable lack of an alarm or anything like one. “All right, you lot — food now, sloths later.”

In they went, bags at the ready, and didn't illuminate their torches until the door was almost closed behind them. Christ but it was _weird_ , being in a shop in the dark — it made Lorna think of zombie films, because a lot of things made her think of zombie films, up to and including wheelie bins and too many empty crisp packets in a car park. (She really, really should not have snuck into _Day of the Dead_ at the impressionable age of six, but she blamed Pat. It was always easiest to blame Pat.) 

In this case, though, she doubted she was alone: it was so still and silent. She’d never really stopped to think just how many little noises a person took for granted in a shop, but without the beep of registers, the complaining customers, and the pained tones of employees who really didn't get paid enough to deal with this shit, the market seemed like it had been abandoned for decades.

The sweets aisle was pretty depleted, but there were in fact both cakes and biscuits in the bakery. Maureen and Lorna loaded up, while Orla and Kevin went after the more practical, boring items that they pretty much only ate to stave off scurvy, meaning fruits and veg. Even without an alarm, it was better to get in and get out as fast as possible.

Two aisles over, somebody let out a sharp, aborted shriek, followed by the thundering of running feet. 

Lorna scrambled after it, though her wet boots skidded on the tile when she tried to round the corner. Maureen blew right past her, but whatever was chasing her slid to a halt before it could run smack into Lorna. 

Unfortunately for whoever (or whatever) it was, Lorna’s instinctive reaction was to screech like a coked-up banshee and lob the nearest thing at it — in this case, a big tin of some vegetable or other. She didn't stick around long enough to know if she actually hit anything, though the meaty thud and muffled cursing would suggest that she had. It also suggested that her target was actually a person, but she wasn’t going to stick around to confirm _that_ , either. Her goodie bag was pretty full anyway, so she pelted out the back door, hot on Maureen’s heels.

Orla and Kevin were only a few steps behind; as soon as they were all out, Orla slammed the door before the quarted legged it as fast as they could. Logically, they’d just run into somebody who’d thought to rob the shop before they did, but in the dark like that, with no visible face...no thanks.

They didn't slow until they were well away from the car park, and Lorna’s breath was so ragged that her lungs were burning. Yeah, she really _did_ need to quit smoking, because she was about ready to keel over.

“Nobody tell Shane,” Orla gasped; Lorna wasn’t the only one totally out-of-breath. “He’ll not let us go back there if he knows, and I for one don't want to walk five fucking kilometers to the next market.”

“It’s not like whoever that was will rat us out, either,” Kevin said. “Whoever it was shouldn’t’ve been there any more than we should’ve.”

“I wonder who in fuck it was,” Maureen said. She wasn’t wheezing quite as bad as the rest of them, just because she didn't smoke.

Lorna stood up straighter, and eyed the empty, rain-washed street. “How about we don't find out?”

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a second part, involving Halloween proper. Stay tuned. :)


End file.
